


Cheating Death

by rain_sleet_snow



Series: Pawn Takes Queen [1]
Category: Primeval
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-20
Updated: 2011-08-20
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:57:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/pseuds/rain_sleet_snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lorraine was never meant to be a field agent, and Blade was never going to let her die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cheating Death

**Author's Note:**

> A snippet of Lorraine’s dark and shady past from the Lies of Omission/Lies of Commission/Practise To Deceive ‘verse. Blade belongs to fredbassett.

            Lorraine slid quickly in through one of the many side gates to the compound, shut it and locked it, then ran for the nearest building. She thought she had lost her pursuers in the warren of dangerous little back-streets she’d just led them a merry dance through, but she couldn’t be sure – and here was the safehouse, a wreck of appalling proportions. As Lorraine hurried through it, knowing stealth was pointless, she reloaded her gun and wondered how it had happened, exactly. There were bullet holes in the walls, bloodstains and bodies on the floor of some of the rooms, and Lorraine spotted out of the corner of her eye a knife jammed firmly into a wall by way of a bookcase; she paused to remove it, wrenching it out of the fake pine without a second thought, and then carried on. She became slower and more cautious as she headed deeper into the building. Surely, if the fight was still in progress, the protagonists would be here – and yet Lorraine could hear nothing.

 

            This either meant that the fight had departed hence, or that all her colleagues were dead; if even one had survived, a lot more screaming would be going on.

 

            Lorraine took a sharp right and pushed open a supposedly bullet-proof door, which, in testimony to its strength, had several holes in. This led into a brief corridor with three offices coming off it, one of which communicated almost directly to the back of the compound and the vehicles used by its occupants. Two of the doors were open, off their hinges, and the rooms inside ransacked; one was only slightly ajar.

 

            She kicked this open and levelled her gun – at Niall Richards.

 

            Lorraine gaped at him for a moment. He was bleeding heavily, sat down and leaning against a desk, facing the door with several used guns and a lot of knives scattered around him. Waiting for someone to enter, ready to kill before he died. Which, Lorraine noted, looking at the extent and severity of his wounds and smelling blood sharp on the back of her throat, would be fairly shortly.

 

            She swayed where she stood slightly, and stared some more. She knew him, as much as anyone ever did, as much as several adrenaline-laden fucks entitled her to. She knew his full name, which was more than most of the world ever would, and she felt something for him – a strong attachment that wasn’t anything approaching love, but that might be the solid respect of one skilled employee for another with a very different, but equally high-quality skill-set, combined with the instant camaraderie of danger and the visceral twist of undeniable attraction. And he was _dying_.

 

            He was also grinning as if this were the funniest thing he had ever done.

 

            “I suppose,” Lorraine said, trying for icy and getting hysteric, “this is yours.” She held up the knife.

 

            “Oh, yeah,” Blade said easily, although his breathing was increasingly laboured. “Left that behind a bit ago. Pass it here?”

 

            She held out the knife. He flipped it on his fingers and tested the edge.

 

            “Seems fine to me.”

 

            “Good,” Lorraine said, “because I have nothing better to do than ferry your weaponry from room to room. Niall, what happened here?”

 

            He shrugged unemotionally. “Obviously our cover got blown and they came for us. The others have already gone, but there’ll be another pick-up site for you if you get on the phone to Hereford.”

 

            “Get on the phone to...?”

 

            “I saved you a sat phone.” Blade nodded at the item in question; Lorraine went and picked it up, dazed. A set of car keys lay alongside it; she tucked them into her pocket.

 

            “What about you?” she said, knowing the answer.

 

            “You aren’t stupid, Lorraine. Don’t act it. I’m dying.”

 

            “I can tell that.” She gestured with her handgun. She couldn’t believe she was saying this. “This is loaded. What do you want me to do?”

 

            Blade sighed, a long, horrible sound accompanied by noises that suggested blood had made it into his lungs, but he smiled, too – as if he was pleased that she’d said that, as if it were the right answer. He’d taught her almost everything she knew about being in the field, and she felt a small pang of pride. “I want you to come here and give me a kiss, then run like fuck. I reckon when they left me alone they were looking for you, and they’ll be back.”

 

            She went tense, hearing faint shouts and thumps, and knew they were already here.

 

            Blade heard the same thing, and his eyes sharpened. “C’mere.”

 

            She came to him – she never could help it – and knelt down beside him. He wrapped one of his large hands around the back of her neck, and drew her into a kiss that tasted like blood and desperation and ties that wouldn’t break until they were both dead and gone – which could very well be sooner than she’d like.

 

            They broke apart, and Lorraine felt the first sting of tears.

 

           “Fuck it, don’t cry, you haven’t got time.” Blade gestured sharply. “You’re top priority now. Run.”

 

            “I would’ve liked to have known you somewhere else,” Lorraine said quickly, “some time when we weren’t all trying to die,” and waited just long enough to see Blade flash her a grin with only one regret in it and nod before pushing out of the door behind the desk, running blindly down a short back corridor full of dirty shoes, unnecessary raincoats and other paraphernalia, and shouldering her way out of the last back door.

 

            One of the Land Rovers remained and she fumbled the car keys out of her pocket and unlocked it, then jumped into it, locked the doors and found the remote to open the gate. Her gun lay on her lap, her satphone lay on the passenger seat, and as she shot out of the half-open gate at seventy miles an hour she heard the shooting start again.

 

 

           Lorraine thought the crew of the Chinook that came to get her out of the country were surprised to find her; just one woman with a closed face, a smart suit, a satphone, a gun and a bloody handprint on the back of her neck. To be perfectly honest, she was surprised she was alive.

 

           She sat quietly through the flight without sleeping, answering the questions of the medic that came to check on her simply, briefly and without communicating much of importance. No, I’m not harmed.  No, I really do mean I’m not harmed – not in any way. Except that I may have twisted my ankle. I can’t sleep. No, I would not like a sedative, thank you.

 

           They landed, and it felt like too soon to Lorraine, even though outside it was a particularly cold, dark night, a complete contrast to the hot late afternoon sunshine she’d left behind; she would have liked to stay in the grey, functional emptiness of the Chinook and the sky for a little while longer. A little more peace, a little more quiet. A little more time to think about the man she left behind, and what she could do for him, now that he was gone.

 

           She thanked the crew calmly and politely, then walked out of the Chinook and allowed herself to be conducted to some kind of a changing room, with a shower, sink and mirror, a chair, a towel, and a large sports bag. Shower and sink were ready stocked with soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, shower-gel, and a shampoo and conditioner. Lorraine washed her hands, and took a quick look at the shampoo and conditioner which made her wrinkle her nose and decide it was unsuitable.

 

           She opened the sports bag, and found that someone had packed her clothes and toiletries, which told her that someone had been in her flat at home. At the moment, she couldn’t bring herself to care, especially as whoever that person was had packed her own preferred brand of shampoo and conditioner and her microfiber towel, which gave her comfort out of all proportion to the gesture. They had also packed her complete _Lord of the Rings_ and the most recent copy of the _Economist_ , which suggested not just tact but compassion. As for clothes – a dark blue pencil skirt, a plain pale grey blouse, fresh underwear and tights, a charcoal-coloured, heavy jumper that made her long to snuggle into it and go to sleep, and her favourite flat boots. Comfortable and comforting things.

 

          Lorraine smiled without being happy and stripped off her watch, earrings, dirty clothes and shoes. She suspected she would not be getting at least the latter two objects back. She turned on the shower, and stepped under blessed hot water, and started to wash away the blood.

 

           She didn’t care who was waiting for her, or what she had to do. She washed at her leisure and dressed equally without haste, before packing away her dirty clothes and putting her jewellery back on. She hesitated over the gun and satphone for a moment, before slipping them into the sports bag too, and picking it up.

 

           She walked slowly out of the changing room and handed the bag to a blank-faced soldier waiting outside, who saluted and took it away, leaving her to another equally blank-faced soldier; this one led her away, along featureless corridors to a debrief room. She didn’t recognise the man there, so she thanked her guide, walked into the debrief room, sat down, and waited for him to tell her who he was.

 

            He did not – merely shuffled some papers, turned on a recorder, congratulated her on her safe return and asked her an endless series of equally dull questions about the abortive mission and her escape. She answered them on automatic; only one roused any interest or emotion from her, and she knew her interviewer caught it by the startled and shocked look on his face.

 

           “The one remaining member of the mission, Corporal Niall Richards. Is he dead? If so, how did he die?”

 

           “Blade?” Lorraine repeated, “Dead? I left him very seriously wounded, with a lot of weaponry, preparing to fight to the last. Is he dead?” She laughed and shrugged, smiling mischievously at the interviewer. “Who can say?”


End file.
